“No,” lied the naughty boy, “I have not.”
“Well then,” said Sicklefox, “I shan’t have that. But I smell something else very tasty indeed: have you a sticky caramel in your pocket?”
This too the naughty boy offered. “If you think it smells tasty, you can have it.”
“Mmm...” Sicklefox sniffed at the caramel, buttery and salty and very sweet. He licked his chops. “Yes, this does smell good. But I couldn’t possibly eat your only caramel. Have you had one yourself?”
“No,” lied the naughty boy, “I have not.”
“Alas,” cried Sicklefox, “there is nothing in your pockets for me.” And he went back to sharpening his sickle.
The naughty boy breathed a sigh of relief, and prepared to make his excuses.
“But there is one thing...” Sicklefox said. “There is one thing I like more than buns or apples or sticky caramels...”
And the baker and the grocer and the confectioner were never tricked again. Because what Sicklefox really likes more than anything is lies: and the tongue of the naughty little boy was very tasty indeed.
13
The Bronze Knight and the Angel
In a time before coal or steam, when magic moved the tide and turned the heavens, there was a golden tree, guarded by an angel with a sword of fire. No ordinary tree was this, for it had sprouted from a pip spat by a god. Upon the tree grew a single emerald apple, and whosoever ate this apple would gain eternal life: this was why the angel was set out to guard it, for the gods are jealous, and will not suffer any man to have eternal life.
But as gods are jealous, so is man ambitious, and many heroes came to try and take the apple for themselves. One such hero was the bronze knight, and the angel saw well his burnished armour as he crested the first hill. Seeing this, the angel took up his bow and loosed a volley of arrows, each one tipped with serpents’ teeth. But the knight was unharmed, for his armour was Virtue, which serves well any who choose to wear it.
As the knight crested the second hill, the angel took up his javelins and hurled them out across the land, each glinting in the sun. These were tipped with dragons’ claws, but still the knight was unharmed: he lifted his shield, which was Hope, and shelters any who can hold it.
As the knight crested the third hill—the hill of the golden tree—the angel took up his sword of fire. The knight dismounted, and honoured battle began. The duel was fierce, and more than once the knight’s shield and armour showed their worth again, but in the end the angel had to yield, for the sword of the knight was Time, and eventually all fall before it.
“Alas,” said the angel, “I am vanquished.” He plucked the emerald apple from the tree and presented it to the bronze knight, though not before licking it thoroughly all over.
The knight made no move to take the apple.
“What’s wrong?” asked the angel. “Do you not wish to claim your spoils?”
“You are not gracious in defeat,” said the knight, and he got back on his horse and rode away across the hills.
And the moral of the story is: angels can be jerks too.
14
Bionic Punchline
“Take that, vile space thing!” shouted Captain Starjet, punching the alien with his bionic fist.
“Sorry,” said the alien as it staggered back, “but do you really have to call me ‘vile space thing?’ I don’t find it all that offensive personally, but it makes it pretty obvious that humanity is the brutish invader in this intergalactic war. Nobody’s supposed to work that out until it’s revealed that my people are actually kind and gentle outside of battle, and that the motivations behind this conflict are largely economic, rather than ideological.”
“Are not!” snorted Captain Starjet. “You’re just a gross tentacle monster that has to be vanquished in spectacular fashion. Frankly, I don’t care what you do outside of battle as long as you look suitably menacing while I pummel you.”
“See!” cried the alien, jabbing a tentacle in the air for emphasis. “That’s exactly why you’re the bad guy. Only that’s going to be a pretty rubbish twist if you give it away so soon.”
“Guys, guys!” called the director, making a time-out “T” with his hands. “Listen, you know I’m happy for you to ad-lib a bit, but this is just stupid. I actually can’t believe I’m having to explain this to you: you can’t openly discuss the plot on camera. If you absolutely must address these issues, you have got to do so with believable dialogue. Joe, maybe hint at a rich, wise culture outside the swarm-like battle-horde, but don’t just come right out and declare yourself the good guy. And Brian, the audience may be there to see Starjet punch some aliens, but that can’t be his only motivation for punching aliens. I mean, it’s not like he just gets up in the morning, flies into space and starts beating people up. He’s a reliable member of the Earth Defence Force fighting for—he thinks—a noble cau...”
“Allan?” Doctor Ling snapped her fingers in front of the patient’s face. “Allan, can you hear me?”
“Huh?” Allan looked around. “What?”
“You were having another flashback. This one sounded quite intense.” Doctor Ling put on her caring voice and leaned back, notepad ready. “Would you like to talk about it?”
Allan paused, still not quite sure that this room was real. “It...it was that film again: Splurg-puncher VI. It meant so much to me at the time, but whenever I think about it now...it was terrible. It was just an awful, awful movie. It wasn’t even tongue-in-cheek. Half the actors realised how much it sucked and just resigned themselves to it, the other half totally overcompensated. And...I can’t even blame them. It was such an awful movie. I can’t for the life of me work out how we reached film number six—not least because there weren’t even any others before it. I think I was going for a Star Wars thing or something...I don’t know.”
“You’ve mentioned Star Wars before, Allan.” Doctor Ling adjusted her glasses. “It keeps coming back: the character of Darth Vader in particular. Do you think this could really be about...your father?”
“I...” Allan looked around the room again. This was a sanctuary. In this room, he had already made so much progress. But there was still so far to go. “I don’t want to go back there,” he said, bluntly.
Doctor Ling placed a hand on his arm. “It’s okay, Allan. You don’t have to. You don’t have to because...” she stood, striking a theatrical pose as the walls spun outwards. “You’re on hit gameshow I Shrink You’re Right!”
The studio lights went up, revealing a cheering audience.
“Allan, get ready to spin the disk of disorders and pick...your...prize!”
Allan watched as the garishly coloured prop was wheeled towards him, lights gleaming as it span.
“Xzargthrax?” Skishzxabb held a small torch in one dainty tentacle, checking each of his comrade’s pupils in turn. “Xzargthrax, can you hear me?”
“Blehburble...” mumbled Xzargthrax. “Wonna...beach holiday anna...VCR.”
“Nurse?” Skishzxabb stood. “Bring a stretcher, and sixty blurgles of Phlarlzamine: this one’s having recursive hallucinations.” He shook his heads at the senseless violence. “Looks like Captain Starjet punched him good.”
15
Welcome to London
Challenge #7: Write a three sentence story featuring something usually found in threes. You must also summarise the story in three words.
“I’ve been thinking about what we should do with our wealth now that we’re famous,” grunted the Little Pig, “and it seems to me that the housing market would be a particularly promising investment.”
“There’s talk of it being another bubble, but I just haven’t seen any evidence of that,” squeaked the Blind Mouse.
“Well,” bleated the Billy Goat Gruff, “if there is a housing bubble, I suppose we’ll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it.”
16
Rebranding the Black Throne
“Thank you...erm...very much for coming her
e.” The Dungeon Lord wasn’t accustomed to being polite. “I realise this place is...some would say it’s a little out of the way.”
“Well,” said the interior designer, “I suppose it helps to keep undesirables out.”
“Ah.” The Dungeon Lord raised a begauntleted finger. “Funny you should mention that. You see, while obviously any normal person would consider the rusty iron spikes, booby traps, whips, shackles and torture devices to be a deterrent, I’ve recently had a slew of visitors who mistook my little setup here for something...” he leaned down and cupped a hand to the interior designer’s ear, “...erotic.”
“Oh.” The designer raised his eyebrows. “I see.”
“Now, I don’t want to do anything too drastic. I don’t want to get rid of all these lovely cages with the skeletons in them. But clearly this place isn’t presenting quite the image I want.”
“Hmm.” The interior designer tapped his pencil against the spine of his notebook. “Do you mind if I be brutally honest?”
“I suppose it wouldn’t do much good if you weren’t.”
“I think you probably will have to do something drastic. The whips, the chains...not to put too fine a point on it, but I can see why some might get the wrong impression.”
The Dungeon Lord snorted. “I think you might be reading a little too much into...”
“That skeleton’s wearing a ball gag.”
“The screaming was getting really annoying.”
“Be that as it may, it still sends a message. And personal fashion isn’t really my area of expertise, but your...attire...”
“I’m a tyrannical despot in a crumbling wilderness lair! Spikes and black leather are practically the uniform!”
“Well, on its own you could probably get away with it. But along with all the torture paraphernalia right here in the throne room people might think you were mixing work with pleasure, if you catch my meaning.”
The Dungeon Lord sighed, slumping down in his terrible black throne. “All I wanted was to have uncountable riches and limitless power and an army of goblin slaves. The dungeon was just the easiest way to organise it all, you know? Heroes come in, they get caught in some trap or other, you come in and enjoy a little leisurely gloating. Only now I’ve got it all set up, everyone who comes here is some kind of weirdo expecting a dirty thrill.” He put his head in his hands.
The interior designer raised a hand, moved to pat the Dungeon Lord on the back, then found that there wasn’t anywhere to pat that wasn’t covered in spikes or chains and lowered it again. “This renovation wouldn’t have to change what you do. It would simply present an image that’s more in keeping with who you are as a malevolent ruler.”
The Dungeon Lord sniffed. “You mean...it could still be built around me?”
“Exactly!” The designer smiled. “What kind of tyrant would you be if it wasn’t?”
The Dungeon Lord looked around. He hadn’t really done much to this place beyond just order the goblins to redecorate. With the help of a real professional, he could turn it into something really great. After all, you got what you paid for, and since it had all been slave labour so far anything else was bound to be a step up. “Okay,” he said, sniffing again, “what did you have in mind?”
“Barbarians,” said the designer, significantly.
“Barbarians?”
The designer nodded. “Barbarians.”
The word hung in the air.
“When you told me you had this place way out in the middle of nowhere, that was the first thing that sprang to mind. Seeing it for myself, I’m convinced it’s the way to go: furs lining the walls, big sturdy tables with horns of mead, maybe some ox skulls here and there... It’ll look fantastic!”
“I have to admit, that does sound good.”
“And a few roaring fires would do wonders to brighten the place up.”
“Ah.” That was the deal-breaker. “I should probably mention that if the room is well lit, it makes it way too obvious to spot all the traps.”
“I would really recommend getting rid of the ones in the throne room anyway. You’re the big bad here: corridors and side rooms are one thing, but once heroes get this far it should be all about you.
“That’s the thing. As a rule I don’t actually...you know...fight anybody directly. My role is mostly administrative.”
“That’s the beauty of the whole barbarian theme! You just hire a bunch of big shirtless guys to take care of that for you.”
“That could work.” The Dungeon Lord nodded. “And the skeletons in cages wouldn’t look out of place. That’s a bonus.”
The designer grimaced. “I would very much recommend losing the skeletons.”
“Why?”
“Necrophiliacs.”
“Okay. I will lose the skeletons.”
There was an awkward pause.
“Definitely hang onto the cages, though. You can put more big shirtless guys in those.”
“This sounds like it’s going to cost me a fortune in wages. How will the guys in cages even fight off intruders?”
“They wouldn’t fight, per se, but they would perform a very impressive war dance.”
The Dungeon Lord stared. “Are you...are you suggesting go-go barbarians?”
“Well when you say it like that it just sounds silly. Caged barbarian dancers are an integral part of the look we’re going for, and when properly oiled up I can assure you they’re quite striking.”
“I really don’t like where this is going.”
“You’re right. This was a terrible idea and I should be punished for it. Since I’ve already got the barbarians waiting outside, perhaps you’d like them to help?”
“Goblin-slave!” called the Dungeon Lord. “Escort this interior designer from the premises.”
The goblin slave appeared and began to drag him away.
“Wait!” shouted the designer. “I’ll settle for a light whipping and...” the hall doors slammed shut.
The Dungeon Lord roared to the heavens: “Am I the only sane person in this derivative fantasy universe!?”
17
Always the Same Place
Challenge #8: Write a story addressing a social issue. It must be serious in nature and may not use any first person pronouns.
Jason went to meet his friends under the big tree in the park.
Ernest nudged his wife, sitting next to him on the bench. “They’re always loitering over there. You don’t know what they’re up to—always got their hoods up! Probably fighting. Probably drugs.”
They moved beneath the awning of the local shops.
“Here they come again,” said Mabel. “Always standing in that same place. Shoplifting. And there was that brick through the window last year.”
Jason said goodbye and headed home.
“Tch,” snorted Grandad, jabbing the air with a finger. “Always upstairs glued to that screen. There was a time kids went outside once in a while!”
18
Where Seagulls Dare
“There’s no escape, you know.”
Thomas put his head on one side, slapping the water out of his ear. “Sorry?”
“There’s no escape...from the island.” The heavily bearded man gave him a stare. “The same rocks that sank your vessel have defeated my every attempt at floating a raft.”
“Oh.” Thomas wasn’t sure exactly what one was supposed to say in this situation. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“There’s food enough to get by here, if you don’t mind bitter roots, insects, sour berries. That’s almost the cruellest thing.” Beneath his stitched-leaf hat, his eyes gazed out to sea. “Compared with the open ocean, this place offers a fair chance of survival. But can it really be called living? Trapped here...on the island?”
“I guess not.” Thomas stood and brushed himself off. “But the thing is, I don’t think it’s as hopel...”
“Shhh!” The castaway pressed a grimy finger to Thomas’s lips. “Hope is even crueller than...the isla
nd. Forty years I’ve been here, and I can tell you hope brings only pain. God, or fate, or something more terrible still, has us imprisoned here. For its amusement? Or through sheer indifference? None can say. For us there is only...the island.”
Thomas pushed the castaway’s hand away in disgust. “Phleh!” He rubbed his mouth on his sleeve. “Do you ever wash your hands?”
The man shrugged. “You’ll find no sinks on...the island.”
“And will you please stop saying it like that? ...the island. You sound ridiculous.”
“Because I’ve come to appreciate the vast desolation that surrounds us? The deep isolation that, paradoxically, reminds us of the invisible forces uniting all things? The majesty of...the island.”
“Because it’s a peninsula!”
The castaway paused. “Say what now?”
“Seriously?” Thomas put a hand to his forehead. “You’ve been here forty years and you never noticed?”
“I thought if I stayed by the shore, I might catch a boat going past.”
“They’re going past constantly! Surely all those swan-shaped paddle boats were a clue that you weren’t exactly in the middle of nowhere.”
“I thought they were swans.” The castaway folded his arms. “We can’t all be ornithologists, you know.”
“And the big sign saying ‘Sunny Peninsula Boat Hire’ just over there?”
“Well sure, if you just happen to look precisely in that direction.”
“It’s a neon sign! There’s a unicyclist juggling flaming torches on top of it!”
“I think that’s a ‘today only’ sort of thing.”
“Whatever.” Thomas began to head off towards the boat hire place. His sodden shoes felt awful, his wet clothes three times their dry weight. “I’ve got enough to worry about: those guys are probably going to charge me a fortune for crashing that swan boat.” He paused. “Do you need me to, like, lead you off this peninsula or something?”
The castaway slowly shook his head. “Been out here too long now. Too long on...the peninsula.”
“Suit yourself.”
19